


Between the Pawn and the King

by DjDangerLove



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Protective Gil Arroyo, reposted after I deleted it months ago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:13:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DjDangerLove/pseuds/DjDangerLove
Summary: Bright is struggling after being kidnapped by the team's latest suspect so Gil uses a game he's quite familiar with to show him a different perspective on just what Malcolm means to them.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	Between the Pawn and the King

The chill from the concrete bench seeps through the woven wool of his suit pants as he sits down at a vacant chess board in the park, the mid morning spring air blowing gently at the ruffled state of oily strands on his head. He fiddles with a pawn piece, twisting it between quivering bandaged fingers, and ducking his head from onlookers when it falls with a ruckus amongst the other pieces. The rooks topple off the table, falling like the castle walls they represent in the game and it has Bright giving an irritated chuckle at himself as he bends down to retrieve them. 

“If this spot doesn’t bring back a lot of memories,” is said across from him as he crests back over the tabletop to sit up straight. He places the rooks back on their starting spot with an annoyed sigh at the sight of his mentor easing himself down opposite him at the chess board. 

He isn’t surprised Gil found him here, but he is desperate to keep the conversation on the tip of the older man’s tongue at bay, so he offers, “You remember.”

Gil, immune to Bright’s stalling tactics, rolls his eyes. “A place I spent nearly a decade of lunch breaks at? Of course, I remember.”

Bright, despite himself, can’t stop his mouth from ticking up at the corner though it smarts the stitches sitting just above his lip. It’d been hard to imagine back then, being older and sitting in the same spot with the same people. It’s still kind of hard to believe now, but Gil is nothing if not persistent, constant even. 

Bright rubs at his left eye, mindful of the swirls of blacks and blues painting his skin, and sighs. “I just needed a minute.”

“Oh, you need more than a minute,” Gil counters while folding his arms on the tabletop and leaning forward to duck his head to meet Bright’s gaze. “Hey. We all get it. JT does too so stop beating yourself up. I mean you look like hell as it is.”

A laugh bursts out of him at that, short and painful, but full of mirth because Gil has never been one to sugarcoat anything. “JT says that’s my natural look,” he shrugs despite the ache of his arm resting in a sling. “So I must be fine.”

“One hundred percent,” Gil mocks and picks up a pawn piece, inspecting it like a piece of evidence. “You know, I never really understood chess.”

“That’s because you never bothered to learn. We always played checkers.” 

Gil laughs and continues to spin the piece in his hand. “Well, you could teach me now.”

Bright’s stitched brow furrows painfully. “You mean, right now?”

Gil makes an affirmative nod and places the pawn on the board to grab up the king instead. “What’s he do?”

Bright hesitates, confused as to why his mentor suddenly wants to learn chess after years of playfully refusing, but the man wiggles the piece expectantly in his silence. 

Bright huffs, knowing this is somehow a trap, but explains. “That’s the king. It’s the most important. You have to protect it at all costs and he can only be moved in one direction.”

Gil narrows his eyes a bit at the information and switches it out for another piece to hold out as an inquiry. 

“The queen,” Bright offers. “The most powerful. She can be moved in any direction, any number of spaces.”

Gil again switches pieces, this time picking the bishop and Bright doesn’t miss the suspicious fact he’s going in order for someone who doesn’t understand chess. “Bishop,” he says, voice tentative and eyes squinted in puzzlement. “But I think you knew that.”

Gil raises a practiced blank expression and wiggles the bishop.

“It can move diagonally. Represents the church, second in line to the King and Queen as it was in Medieval Europe. Gil-“

The man shakes his head and picks up the piece shaped like a horse’s head. “What’s this one?”

“A knight. Gil stop-“

“Tell me about it.”

“Moves in an L shape. What are-“

“And this one?”

Bright breathes out slowly, releasing the annoyance building behind his eyes in a dull ache, but that could be from the concussion. “That’s the rook, Gil. They’re essentially the castle walls. Used to protect the knights, bishops, Queen, and King. Can you just get to the point of all of this? I realize this isn’t about you picking up chess.”

“One more,” Gil softens, but holds up the last piece all the same.

“The pawn,” Bright murmurs, swallows heavily before speaking more precise. “Weakest piece. On the frontline representing peasants sacrificing themselves for the sake of the King.”

Gil nods, but keeps holding the pawn piece. He turns it between his thumb and forefinger and shakes it gently at Bright. “This isn’t you.”

“What?” Bright asks more perplexed than he feels as he tries to ignore the sharp sting of anxiety poking him in the lungs. 

His mentor sighs, shoulders sagging and frown lines deepening. “Before we breached, we could hear Rollins.”

Mouth suddenly dry, Bright runs his tongue on the roof of his mouth, the ridges a texture he can focus on instead of forgetting to breathe. His mind under siege by flashes of an abandoned house on the lake, wood floors chipped under his bare feet making splinters if he tried to scoot away and daylight partially cast out by moth-eaten curtains. 

_“You’re only a pawn to them, Malcolm. Can’t you see that?”_

“Bright.”

Calloused hands with oil stained fingernail beds coil around his throat. _“I’ll make you see. You’ll wait and you’ll wait, but they’ll never come. No one ever thinks twice about sacrificing the pawn.”_

He chokes on the air rushing his lungs, nearly pitches sideways before remembering the splinters it will cause. He receives two smacks to the cheek even though he stops himself, but their gentleness is a rude awakening to roughness he’s been subjected to for days. Blinking past the emotions in his eyes, he looks to Rollins crouched in front of him, bent so he’s no longer a towering frame of pale skin and orange burnt hair to find that he looks nothing of the sort. 

Instead, guilt-laden eyes stare up at him underneath dark brows, peppered with gray against tan skin. _Gil. Always constant._

“Hey, kid. You with me?” 

Is he? He doesn’t know, but nods all the same, breathing in huge gulps of air before trying to control the pace of them. Gil waits patiently, uncaring of the people Bright casts sideways glances to when they pass by in prying silence, and only speaks when Malcolm looks down at him. 

“Sorry,” Gil says through an apologetic upward curl of the corner of his mouth. “You good?”

Bright nods again, more sure this time that he isn’t and Gil rests his hand on his uninjured shoulder. 

“Can I show you something,” the older man asks, jutting his chin towards the chess board and reaching for the king when Bright just blinks. Gil holds the piece by the base so the points of the crown stand high between their gazes as he keeps his crouch. “This is you.”

Bright can’t even begin to scoff at the thought before Gil continues softly, “The king is most important, you said? All the others work to keep it safe, right? Because they need the king. They lose everything without him. Game over, yeah?”

Bright rubs at the tip of his nose with his bandage hand so the little nod he gives could go unnoticed as Gil switches to holding the queen. 

“And this one. The queen. This…is your mother,” Gil chuckles and it deepens into a laugh when he gets the tiniest smile from Bright. “The most powerful. Can basically do anything to protect the king, right?”

“And this one,” he continues without missing a beat, picking up the bishop. “Next in line to the queen, still protecting the king at all costs, but protecting the queen if need be. Gonna set you straight in the meantime, representing the church and all that.” Gil pauses in a way Bright has come to know means he’s going to say something he really wants him to understand. “The bishops…that’s me and Jackie.”

Bright ducks his head, unable to show how much he knows that to be true. 

“And the knights….highly educated, trustworthy…that’s people like Ainsley and Gabrielle. And the rooks,” he explains, picking up the piece and twisting it. “The castle walls of sorts, was it?”

Bright confirms with a small nod. 

“These are people like Dani and JT. Your friends. People willing to not only protect you but anybody that means anything to you. People that are going to be there no matter what tries to get inside that head of yours.”

Bright twists his face in dissent, but Gil holds up his hand to stop him. “They wouldn’t be blowing up both our phones right now, worried sick about you if that were anything but true. So you punched JT in face, if there’s somebody in the precinct that hasn’t crossed him at some point and wanted to do that…let me know. I’d like to meet them.”

“I didn’t mean to, I just…he got to close and he said-“

“Something Rollins said to you. He feels like shit about it to. He didn’t know.”

“I needed some air. Just to…clear my head.I’m not…”

“Bright, I promise. It’s fine.”

Malcolm takes minute to collect himself, breathing out slowly and lets his gaze wander to the chess board staring at the pieces in a way he ever has before when he remembers the pawn. The piece he’s always considered himself to be in his father’s hold on his life. He picks it up, easier this time and with a steadier hand. “You forgot the pawns,” he says as he holds it out to Gil. “In your analogy, I mean.” 

Gil takes the piece and squeezes it hard in his large hand, the piece nearly disappearing. 

“And the Martin Whitlys of the world. The John Watkins and the Stewart Rollins. All those assholes are the pawns. The ones paying rent to be inside your head like peasants working to live outside of the castle.” Gil palms the side of his head the way he’s fond of doing, and adds, “But the rooks, the knights, the bishops, the queen, all of them, _all of us_ stand between the king and the pawns no matter what.”

The sentiment settles heavy on him, feels nearly unbearable in a beaten down body, but it also feels good, like placing winter cold hands over a fire. He sniffs a bit, and bites at his bottom lip as much as the stitches allow and swallows what he really needs to say in order to tuck away the emotions he needs to unpack later when he can fully process them. 

Instead, he looks up at Gil with forced enthusiasm and says, “Hey, do you think I could use this to guilt JT into telling me his real name?”


End file.
